Penumbra 4- In the Wind
by A. Farnese
Summary: A summer of peace has descended upon Camelot, but old enemies rise up to threaten Arthur's reign as regent. As old hatreds stir, Arthur finds himself caught between two loyalties and begins to lose faith in one he thought he would never doubt. Story 4 in the Penumbra AU. Mild whump.
1. Prologue

_Disclaimer: _Merlin_ and all its characters don't belong to me, nor is any money made. For the fun of it, only!_

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The whisperer kept her eyes down as she passed through the sunlit hallways of the citadel of Camelot. With a basketful of freshly laundered bedsheets cradled in front of her, no one questioned her presence, leaving her free to go where she willed. She closed her eyes and reached out with her magic, letting it fill her senses to tell her if the ones she must avoid were there- the prince, his sorcerer, the physician, and the serving girl, Guinevere. They were the suspicious ones, the ones who might see through her servile facade to find Morgause's webs beneath.

They were far away, all of them. She slipped through the door and closed it softly behind her, setting the basket on the bed as she drifted through the king's chambers, savoring the sight before her- Uther Pendragon, the bane of her kind, slouched in his chair, eyes vacant. A line of droll was beginning to make its slow way down his chin through days' worth of stubble. A thorough scrubbing could not clean the faint stains out of his linen nightshirt.

"Majesty," she said, her voice laced with a scorn he could not register. "How far you fell. Undone by your own daughter. I appreciate the irony, to know that the very force you were fighting against manifested so strongly in the girl you held so close." She smoothed the blanket over Uther's arm and bent to whisper in his ear. "And all of it could have been avoided, if only you could have kept to the oath you swore to your wife. Men," she hissed, "So proud to proclaim your virtues, and yet you abandon them so quickly at the sight of a beautiful woman."

She laughed and stroked his unruly hair, sending tendrils of magic into his mind to ensure he heard. _"Gehieran me."_ Uther's chin rose. He tiled his head toward her, a cloudy confusion in his eyes. "Morgana broke your heart and your will when she claimed her throne. You loved your bastard daughter, yet how much more do you love your trueborn son? How much more would it hurt to know that a sorcerer is at his side, whispering into his ear, turning your beloved Arthur against _everything_ you stood for?"

Uther's brow furrowed. The whisperer kept the gleeful smile off her face, "And how terrible would it be to discover that the sorcerer corrupting your son is the very servant you gave him all those years ago? It's Merlin. Merlin is the one turning Arthur against you. Merlin is the one working to destroy your legacy. Merlin is the one who would destroy Camelot to avenge his kind." She wrapped her fingers around his, the way a lover might. "Great king, _you_ are all that stands between Camelot and its ruination. You must rise up again and destroy the pestilence that threatens your son. Only you can save Arthur. You must destroy Merlin. Only then will Arthur be safe." She brushed the unruly strands of his thinning hair down, her eyes flashing gold as she closed the spell around him, _"Gemunan." _

She watched him for a time, waiting for the spell to take hold, and at last she saw it happen, saw the confusion give way to anger, then hatred, then resolve. Satisfied, she gathered up the laundry and slipped out of the room, leaving Uther to soak in the dark thoughts she had planted within his mind.

In the darkness of his chambers, bound by a witch's spell woven of hatred and destruction, Uther Pendragon began to wake up.


	2. Chapter 1

_"Emrys. . . "_

Merlin pulled Altair to a halt, a broad grin spreading across his face. It did not surprise him that the Druid had found him first. He had no idea how Iseldir managed the trick, but manage it he did. Merlin had gone to find him, and he had found Merlin instead. "I'm right here," he called out to the night as he swung out of the saddle, bouncing lightly on his toes on the loamy ground, "You don't have to make a secret of it anymore."

"Old habits die hard, Emrys. The days are better, but we are still not free," Iseldir said as he appeared out of the darkness on the side of the narrow trail. "Although I hear you have returned to Camelot, and that Arthur knows of your powers."

"I'd like to know where you get your news. No one in our little circle is supposed to speak of it." He tugged at Altair's reins, urging the horse to follow along as they moved off the trail toward the hilltop where Merlin sensed more than heard or saw the celebration going on. "And your news is old, anyway. It's been a month and more since I went back."

"I heard it in the wind, Emrys. It spoke of little else."

Merlin chuckled, "Do you know how to speak in anything but riddles?"

"On a night like this, on Lughnasadh itself? Such nights are made for riddles. Have you come to celebrate with us, then?" Iseldir held a low-hanging branch aside for Merlin to pass, ushering him into a little campsite where half a dozen cook fires burned low. A few women tended to them, talking quietly as they worked. One hummed a strangely familiar lullaby as she held a sleeping baby to her breast. She offered the men a smile as they walked past, then turned back to her task. A young woman skittered into the firelight, her dark eyes widening when she saw who had arrived. A shy smile tugged at her lips when she caught Merlin's gaze. Two other girls appeared behind her in a flurry of giggles and whispers hidden behind their hands. They watched him for a moment, eyes shining, before fluttering away like moon-washed butterflies. Somewhere, lost in the woods, a nightingale trilled.

"Beware, Emrys," Iseldir did nothing to hide the amusement in his voice, "Lest the girls think you've come for a handfasting. This is the night for it."

"Not for me. Not tonight." Merlin was glad for the dim light that hid the blush he felt rising in his cheeks. '_Maybe someday, but not now.'_ He kept the thought to himself, though. "Tonight is for celebrating, but not for marriages. Not for me, anyway. I have to be back to Camelot by midday. Arthur gives me more leeway these days, but I don't want to push my luck. It's where I'm meant to be, anyway."

"This newfound freedom suits you, Emrys. I don't think I have ever seen you so happy."

"Given that every time you've seen me until now, it was to give me some dire warning, I can see why. Unless there's something you haven't told me?" He tied the reins off and patted Altair on the shoulder, following Iseldir up the path toward the bare hilltop. He heard the others now, their voices raised in chatter and quiet songs as they celebrated the golden summer and the coming harvest. It had taken a few days to talk Arthur into giving him the day and a half off, but the effort had been worth it. The prince did not fully understand the reasoning for this particular festival, Merlin knew, but Arthur had come to realize what it meant to his servant to have the time away on this, one of the very few sacred days Merlin had ever had the chance to celebrate with those of like beliefs.

"Not this time, no. Unless the wind and the stars have passed me over in favor of you, I've seen no portents of disaster." Iseldir paused, his gaze traveling upwards and fixing on the stars above.

Merlin looked up, too. Despite his years in Ealdor and the two months spent living in Camelot's forests with the night sky spread above, the stars never failed to dazzle him with their beauty and immensity. "I think fewer battles would be fought if men looked toward the stars more often."

"Why do you say that?"

"Have you ever looked up there and felt anything but small and insignificant?" he spared a brief glance at the older man before looking back up. "Men struggle and fight over land and treaties and ideas- just as their fathers did, and their fathers before them. Just as their sons will, and on and on and on. We're just little markers in the grand scale of history, Iseldir, and all the while the stars keep shining. In time, we will be forgotten. Our deeds may outlive us, but the stars will survive us all"

"You will be remembered, Emrys," Iseldir rested a hand on the warlock's shoulder, "Long after the rest of us are dust, your story will live on."

"Arthur's story," Merlin corrected him, "Arthur's legend. He will live on until the end of stories. I will be a shadow trailing behind, if any remember me at all." He traced the shapes of the constellations with his eyes- the plow, the hunter as it disappeared behind the dark branches of the trees, and the milky brightness of Lugh's Chain arching across the sky. "If I'm a light in this story, it's a lesser light."

"The moon is not a lesser light for trailing behind the sun. Its light reveals a different world from that of the day, and the wheel of the year would turn strangely without it. You are important, too, not just Arthur," Iseldir tightened his grip on Merlin's shoulder as though to emphasize the truth of his words, despite the warlock's scoffing. He dropped his hand back to his side, and the two men stood quietly for a time, simply staring up at the glittering sky. "We will go north this winter. To Helva. Two of our young women are meant to study with the healers there. You are welcome to join us for any length of time."

Merlin smiled at the invitation, though they both knew he could not accept, "Thank you, but I can't leave Arthur, even in the winter. Not with Morgana and Morgause still out there, plotting to overthrow him. Gaius's teachings will have to do."

"You would be hard-pressed to find a finer physician in all the realms. It was polite to extend the invitation, though," Iseldir's eyes unfocused for a moment, "And if you are ever in need of our aid, Emrys, simply call to us, and we will find you."

"Do you foresee a need?" Merlin studied the Druid as he blinked his eyes back into focus. Though he did not have the gift of Foresight as Morgana- and apparently Iseldir- did, he knew better than to dismiss such warnings out of hand.

Iseldir's brow furrowed. "No. Not clearly. Visions never are," Merlin nodded in understanding, "One day you will, however. It may be tomorrow, or ten years from now. I know nothing more."

"Visions," the warlock's smile was grim as he remembered his own encounters with the futures that, once seen, he could not change.

"Visions," Iseldir agreed. He shook his head to clear them away and looked up the hill, where the shadows and shapes of people gathered. "But no more dread-mongering tonight, Emrys. Our bard has promised us a song of the Silver Hand, if you would care to join us?"

Merlin's faint smile turned to a broad grin. "I wouldn't miss it for the world."


	3. Chapter 2

He almost hated to leave the forest behind the next morning. The summer heat did not press as heavily with a cooling breeze drifting through the trees, and the rustling of the leaves and flowers sounded like water flowing. Altair's hooves broke up the soil of the trail, sending the scent of the damp earth high into the air, a sweet sillage for Merlin to remember Lughnasadh by as he neared Camelot's walls. The city held a far different energy from the forest, a living energy either way, but everything moved faster in the city streets whether he was amidst the dizzying array of shops and merchants in the markets or near the fields where the knights practiced. The noise of it all had nearly overwhelmed him when he first arrived all those years ago. Now he was used to it. The smell, though, he never agreed with.

Merlin sighed as he passed a pigpen on his way toward the citadel, then held his breath until he was well away, bounding up the stairs and threading his way back down towards the kitchens to collect Arthur's midday meal, tossing his pack over his shoulder as he went. There was time enough to put it away later, and Arthur was grumpy as a bear when his meals were late. There was no sense in baiting the bear any more than he had to. He dodged the cook and gathered up the proper trays, balancing them with a skill borne of long practice as he navigated the stairs back up toward the prince's chambers.

"Merlin!" Guinevere's voice rang out above the normal castle din. She hurried toward him, her blue skirts rustling. "I didn't think you'd be back 'til later. How was your, ah. . . trip?" Her cheeks darkened when she realized she had nearly blurted out the real reason for his journey into the forest.

"It was fine. Even relaxing. It's cooler in the forest this time of year. Especially when you find what you're looking for right away. Speaking of which," he shrugged the pack off his shoulder and let it slide down his arm, catching it in the crook of his elbow, "Can you take this up to Gaius? I only just got back. Figured I'd see to Arthur before anything else."

"Oh," Gwen rolled her eyes as she took the pack's strap, being careful not to upset the trays as she claimed it, "That was a good idea. He's been in an awful mood all morning. Something about secret affairs of state, or the like. Whatever it is, it's the sort of problem he doesn't know how to fix, and you know what he's like when he can't fix things."

"Angry at the world for not being a better place. I know it better than most." He looked up the stairway that led to Arthur's chambers, wondering what problem had set itself across the prince's path this time. "Whatever it is, I'll see if I can't help him sort it out. And if not, then at least he'll be able to yell at me and leave the poor laundresses alone."

"And the Privy Council, and the knights. He knows better than to yell at me," Gwen smirked, "But if you can cheer him up, I'm happy to let you do it."

"Oh, so I get to face down the bear on my own, then?"

"You've faced far worse, Merlin," she rose to her tiptoes and planet a quick kiss on his cheek. "Thank you! I'll take this to Gaius and let him know you're back!" She was gone before he could object further, disappearing into the rush of servants as they went about their tasks, heedless of their compatriot who suddenly felt very put upon as he started up the stairs, only hesitating a little as he pushed the door open with a foot and slipped inside.

"Dammit, George, I'm trying to concentrate on these reports," Arthur did not look up from said reports at the sound of Merlin's footsteps. If his tangled hair and rumpled clothing were any indication, he had worked through the night.

"I'm almost insulted," Merlin raised an eyebrow as he set the trays on the table and whisked the cover off. The scent of roasted chicken wafted through the air, grabbing Arthur's attention. "And it's good to see you, too."

The prince looked up, blinking in confusion. He glanced out the window, then back at his servant. "You were supposed to be back by midday."

"And I am. It's before midday, and I'm back." Merlin pulled out the chair, then narrowed his eyes, studying Arthur for signs of. . . Anything that would explain the continued confusion. "Did you spend the night drinking, and then try to do _all_ of your work this morning, because honestly, Arthur, I know that sometimes you're not the sharpest tool in the shed, but right now-"

"Shut up, Merlin." Arthur tossed a sheaf of parchment onto the desk before stalking over to the table. He dropped into the offered chair and dug into his food as though he had not eaten for days. "Did you have a good time, then, dancing around fires and sacrificing chickens, or whatever it is that you do?"

"We don't sacrifice anything, Arthur. You're mixing up the Druids with the priestesses of the Triple Goddess. There was no dancing, either. Around fires or anything else. Where _do_ you get these ideas?" Merlin bustled about the room, gathering bits of laundry before setting about returning the papers on the desk to some semblance of order.

Arthur glared at him from over the edge of the wine glass. "I spend my life being told certain stories, and then you wonder that I'm not an expert on Druid holy days. Now who's being the idiot, _Mer_lin? Whatever rituals or whatever you do, just. . . be careful about it."

"I am nothing if not careful. That's me, 'Merlin the Careful'. I'm as careful as careful can be." He fished about in a drawer for a new stick of sealing wax. A quick glance over the writing had told him the reports would be heading north; their official status meant a royal seal was necessary. "I take it the Sarrum has been harrying the outposts on the northern border, and that's what kept you up all night?"

"Those are supposed to be secret, Merlin. Keep your nose out of them."

Merlin rolled his eyes. "I've been writing your speeches for the past five years and attended more Privy Council sessions than I care to think about. I'm sure by now I know as much about Camelot's secrets as the high lords. Your enemies will not hear them from me, I can promise you that."

Arthur's shoulders slumped. "I know," he mumbled, just loud enough for Merlin to hear. "Yes, the Sarrum has been sending troops against our border forces to test where they're weakest. Sir Ector has been sending me reports from Blackheath, where they're pressing hardest. I'm sending two thousand men to strengthen his defenses, but that _is_ where we're weakest. Blackheath is an old fortress. That's its strength _and_ its weakness. I fostered there, with Sir Ector for a time when I was a child. I know the place well enough." He let his spoon fall to his mostly empty plate. The clattering of the silver was loud against the quiet of the room. "The walls are starting to crumble, the southern gate's doors need replacing, some of the siege tunnels have collapsed. . . The list goes on. If the Sarrum attacks there with his full strength, I don't know if we'll be able to hold it."

"Surely he can be reasoned with? You came to an accord with both King Caerleon and King Odin."

"Caerleon's a reasonable man. He was testing me after my father fell ill. I pushed back, and we decided the border was acceptable where it was. And Odin. . . " Arthur sighed, the shadow of memory falling over his eyes, "Odin ultimately did not want a war. Not really. He wanted vengeance against me, but there was no way to achieve that without both kingdoms going to war in the end. He still hates me, but he wasn't so keen on war. The Sarrum, though. . . " He swirled the dregs of his wine round and round in the cup, watched the liquid swirl for a time before going on, "The Sarrum is another beast altogether. It's said that, when he claimed the throne, he had his two brothers put to death to keep them from plotting against them. He is beyond cruel, terrorizes his people. Merchants don't go to Amata unless they have to; troubadours don't go at all. Our last three spies were captured and tortured to death. I won't send anyone else. Not at that price. And he hates sorcery even more than my father did. Does." Arthur downed the last of the wine, wincing at the bitter taste.

A small smile spread across Merlin's face, in spite of the prince's dark words. "You've changed." He remembered a night in the forest not so long ago, when Morgana had attacked them and his magic had been revealed to Arthur. The prince had been so frighteningly close to executing Merlin for his magic. And now, a warning to stay away from a man who hated magic.

"What do you mean?" Arthur looked up sharply, brows knit in confusion.

"The Sarrum hates sorcery even more than your father does," the warlock quoted, "It sounds almost like a warning. Would you have said that to anyone six months ago? I'm sure you never would have told a sorcerer not to go."

"You read too much into things, Merlin," Arthur scoffed. His meal finished, he pressed to his feet and drifted to the window, pulling the shutters open in the hope that a breeze might find its way in to ease the humid stillness. He stood quietly for a time, watching as the people came in went in the square below. "I don't want a war. Especially not one with Amata. I want peace for the people of Camelot, but I will not give over a single league to that man. No citizen of Camelot should have to endure even a single day of the Sarrum's tyranny. Not while I rule."

Merlin closed the latch on the wardrobe door with a quiet _snick_ and turned to regard Arthur for a quiet moment. "You're worried about them, aren't you? The people you stayed with at Blackheath?"

The prince nodded slightly but kept his gaze on the streets below. "Lord Ector is a good man. Courageous, wise. He has always been one of my father's most loyal bannermen. His son, Kay," Arthur smirked, "Is perhaps less wise, but he's just as fair-minded as his father. And Lady Drusilla was always kind to me, though she didn't treat me differently from Kay just because I was the prince."

"They sound like good people," Merlin said softly. Arthur nodded again. "You should invite them here for Samhain, even if only the Lady Drusilla is able to come."

Arthur looked over his shoulder, a stormy cast to his eyes. "Do you really think that Ector would willingly leave his post when it's under threat? He would-" The warlock's meaning finally soaked in and the anger softened into amusement, "You mean Drusilla should come to Camelot for Samhain to keep her safe, and make it look like it's for the festival, and not because I worry for her safety." A quiet smile was Merlin's only reply. "Sometimes, you do show an ounce of sense."

"One of us has to," Merlin said, just loud enough for Arthur to hear before ducking behind the changing screen to gather up the last of the laundry. And to escape the cup the prince chucked at his head.

"Shut up, Merlin!"

"You're the one who told me to tell you the truth," Merlin peeked around the screen, an impish look on his face

"A command that is going to come back to haunt me forever, I suppose," Arthur rolled his eyes but could not keep a smile from pulling at his lips. "Now get back to work. I have a border to fortify and an invitation to write, and I don't need your big nose in the middle of it all."

"Yes, sire," Merlin mocked a formal bow and cleared the now-empty dishes off the table, throwing a last glance back at the prince before slipping out the door. While the lines of care had not been wiped away, Arthur was noticeably calmer. Perhaps even happy again. '_One grouchy prince cheered up. I could almost call it a good day's work, if not for everything else that needs doing.' _


	4. Chapter 3

"Will the Lady Drusilla be joining us for Samhain, then?"

Arthur glanced down at Guinevere, a brow cocked at the coy question she was not supposed to have known to ask. "I don't know. The courier only left yesterday. It's three day's hard ride to Blackheath. And how did you even know to ask about that?"

Guinevere shifted the basket of lavender flowers from one arm to the other, an innocent look on her face, "A little bird told me."

"If Merlin's been running his mouth again-"

"Merlin didn't tell me anything," she cut Arthur off with a laugh, "But we servants have our ways. And no, I'm not going to tell you how I found out. It's not as though it's going to be a secret for long. If she does decide to come here, we'll all be preparing for her arrival for weeks."

"True," he conceded the point and then let it go. It was not a major secret, anyway, and the imminent departure of two-thousand soldiers was hardly an event that could be kept quiet. The message of the troop movements and Drusilla's invitation had gone hand in hand. He shook his head and turned his thoughts to other matters. "Elyan doesn't mind being sent back into the forge again, does he?"

"No. And even if it does, he hides it well. Besides," she raised her voice as they turned the corner to head down a different street, "It's a way to remind him of where he comes from, when he's not off playing boy-hero with you."

"We're not _playing_ at being heroes, Guinevere. The defense of the realm depends on the knights of Camelot being- you-" he sputtered to a halt at her laughter. "Sometimes I don't know which is worse, you or Merlin. In any other kingdom, you'd spend an afternoon in the stocks for mocking me." Despite the mild threat, there was no heat in Arthur's voice, only a vague amusement.

"In any other kingdom, would a prince be able to walk down a market street unarmed and unarmored, knowing full well that his people would defend him if anything happened?" Guinevere asked archly.

"I never can win with you, can I?" Arthur huffed, knowing Guinevere was right. If he lived anywhere else, he would not be able to walk down any street like this, with only a dagger at his hip, and a serving girl at his side. In any other kingdom, he would not be able to love said serving girl. Despite Guinevere's gentle mockery, Camelot had many advantages. He shook his head and failed to smother his grin as he turned his gaze down the street.

Ring Street, it was called, though not because of the jewelers that plied their trade at the end closest to the main markets. No, it was named for the ringing of hammers against anvils in the forges that lined the street's north side. Guinevere's father had plied his trade here once, as did Elyan now and then. He was at the forge now, hammering away at a glowing piece of metal. Percival and Lancelot were there, too, pumping the bellows and doing whatever small task needed doing to keep the work going. Stripped of their knightly accoutrements and covered in soot and sweat, none of them looked like the noble knights of Camelot they normally appeared to be.

In the week since he had decided to send men north to fortify Blackheath, every blacksmith had been working day and night to prepare, from the finest bladesmiths and armourers to the smiths who made little but nails and horseshoes. All of it was needed. Other tradesmen were working at full tilt, as well; he had hardly seen Merlin in the past week, for all that Gaius had him preparing all the various potions and salves the surgeons would need after a battle.

"No, Arthur, you never have the upper hand in an argument with me. You should be used to it by now," Guinevere interrupted his woolgathering and gave him a smile that would melt ice.

"Perhaps I should find myself a servant who actually respects my title at Prince of Camelot."

"You already have one. George. He never argues or talks back, and you're always complaining about how dull he is. Face it, Arthur," she said, "You're happier when everyone isn't always saying 'Yes, Your Highness' to everything you say. And having Merlin around is good for you. Before he came around, you were hardly tolerable."

Arthur scowled, "And now?"

"Now I feel free to like you again," Guinevere tried and failed to hold back her laughter at the face he made. The prince could not stay irate in the face of that laughter, and simply shook his head before looking back at the forge.

Elyan had finished his hammering. The metal looked more like a sword now than a random piece of metal as the smith-turned-knight prepared to quench it in the water trough. With a single swift move and a fine plume of steam, Elyan held the blade in the water for the proper amount of time before drawing it back out, examining the length for any visible cracks or flaws. "A good blade?" Arthur called out as he and Guinevere crossed the street.

"If I temper it properly, I think it'll be a good one, yes," Elyan glanced up, a smile shining in his dark eyes before he turned back to his work. That was all Arthur needed to see to know that Elyan had done a good job on the blade. Soon enough, some knight would have a fine sword in his hand.

"Any word on who is going north?" Lancelot asked, now that his task of tending the coals for the tempering was done for at least a few minutes.

"Not Gwaine, that's for sure. He'd get into an argument right away and the Five Kingdoms would all go to war," Arthur said, prompting a laugh from the others. It was not too far from the truth. "And not you, Elyan," he raised his voice so he would be able to hear him, "If you're half the smith your father was, I may have to chain you to your forge." He earned a mock-glare from Elyan and a whack on the arm from Guinevere for that one. "And you two," Arthur gave Lancelot and Percival pointed looks, "Are hopeless on your own, so you'll just have to stay here. But seriously," the prince's smile faded, and his tone grew sober, "Lord Ector and Sir Kay are capable commanders. I trust them to know how to defend their own keep. Unless something drastic happens, I am confident that they'll be able to hold their own against Amata with the additional forces. The main body of the army will only ride north if Blackheath falls."

They accepted that readily enough. Arthur had buried his worries deeply enough, it seemed, that only he and Merlin knew just how anxious the prince truly was regarding the growing tensions with Amata. Once the decision had been made to send the soldiers north, he had tried to take Merlin's parting advice to heart- _"You have enough worries for today. Let tomorrow's troubles take care of themselves."_ The idea was sound enough. Practicing it was more difficult.

"I'll just keep making swords until you tell us to go then, Arthur," Elyan's smile was bright. Arthur wished he could set his worries aside as easily at Elyan seemed to. "Speaking of which, _Percival_, you're not doing your job right now. Those coals cool off too much, and this blade won't be useful for anything except chasing chickens." The big knight ducked his head sheepishly and returned to the bellows.

"Give a man a little authority, and he turns into a slave driver," Lancelot's words had little bite to them, but he earned a rude gesture from Elyan regardless.

"Sire!" The call was muffled amongst the ringing of the hammers, and it took a moment for Arthur to realize that someone was calling to him, and another to find who it was.

Leon was out of breath when he caught up to them, his shoulders hunched and eyes wide, a look of underlying dread on his face. "Sire," he said between breaths, "Your father bids me summon you to attend upon him."

"In his chambers?" Arthur asked, an uneasy knot growing in the back of his throat. Uther _had _been growing restless of late, his voice stronger than it had been in months, though his questions still wandered from one thing to the next without an apparent line of thought. When Gaius had last looked in on the king, he had not foreseen a return to sense. It seemed the physician might have been mistaken.

"No," Leon shook his head, "The great hall. He ordered me to find you and bring you there, and Arthur," he took a shaky breath, "He ordered the guardsmen to find Merlin and bring him there as well."

All eyes were suddenly on them, flicking back and forth between Arthur and the knight. Arthur swallowed against the dryness in his throat and fought to calm his nerves, "Does he know?"

None of them had to ask what. "I don't know. But I don't know why he would summon Merlin specifically if he didn't. Arthur," Leon's eyes, usually so full of surety, were uncertain- even afraid, "What do we do?"

Arthur looked at each of them in turn, measuring each expression and noting the fear in their eyes, how Guinevere's fingers clutched the handle of her basket, how Elyan had forgotten the sword he had been so intent upon moments before. There was fear there, but determination, as well. "Elyan, take Guinevere home and stay with her. Don't answer unless it's one of us." The knight shared a brief glance with his sister before nodding sharply. Guinevere reached out and squeezed Arthur's hand. He gave her a tight smile before continuing, "Lancelot, Percival- find Merlin. Get him out of the city before my father's men find him. He probably knows a dozen ways to get past the walls. Go. Now. If my father knows. . . He won't hesitate to have Merlin killed on sight."

With grim expressions, they splashed water on their faces to get rid of most of the soot before hastily donning cleaner shirts. Percival and Lancelot hurried off toward the citadel. Guinevere squeezed Arthur's hand, "Be careful, she said, her voice low, before Elyan took her arm and ushered her away.

The prince turned and faced Leon, "Merlin may not be the only one who will need to get out of the city. My father banished Gwaine once, and he will not appreciate that I've knighted commoners. If things turn sour. . . "

"I'll do my best to keep them safe, Arthur. I'm sure Lucan would be more than willing to help."

"Thank you," Arthur breathed, letting the rest of his breath out slowly, "Let's not delay, then. My father does not like to be kept waiting."

* * *

The court was resplendent with the hastily donned finery the nobles had put on for a king they had never expected to see in public again, save for his funeral. Arthur strode through the midst of them, his head held high. In a plain linen shirt, leather trousers, and long brown coat, he looked more like a merchant's son than the prince of Camelot. But he was the only one in the room who dared meet the king's gaze. "Father," he dropped the proper bow to the king.

Uther sat the throne like a vulture, his bony fingers locked onto its arms. He glared balefully at his son, his eyes sunken and shadowed, and the heavy golden crown seeming to weigh him down. The king looked more like a man half-dead than the proud warrior the prince had admired as a child. "Arthur," he rasped, "I have heard a rumor that I hope with all my heart is false. It has come to my attention that you have allowed sorcery to take root in Camelot again. That you have allowed its poison to seep into the very heart of this kingdom. This kingdom which- for nearly thirty years I kept clean of the evil that is magic. And now I hear that you are allowing my work to be undone. Is this true?"

Arthur's back straightened as he looked his father in the eye. Here and now, there was no better answer than the truth. "It is true, Father, that I have ceased to persecute the Druids and those who practice benign magics. I have come to believe that they are not, and never have been our enemies. There are those who practice blacker arts, certainly, and those who have plotted against Camelot for their own gain and they are our enemies." He took a breath to calm his racing heart. He had said similar words to his father months ago, but Uther had been insensible then, and the whole of the court of Camelot had not been looking on. Arthur wished, suddenly, that Guinevere, Lancelot, or any of the others could stand with Leon to support him. "But we cannot dismiss an entire people for the simple fact of their use of magic. As not every man who carries a sword is a bandit, so not every man who wields magic is evil. We have let fear rule our actions for too long, Father."

Uther pressed back against the throne, his eyes narrowing with every word. "It is true, then. You _have_ been bewitched. I cannot believe that my own son would seek to destroy my legacy while I yet live. Nor can I believe, that after all I taught you and after so many attempts on our lives have been made by _sorcerers_," he fairly spat the word out as thought it were poison on his tongue, "That you would so readily believe such lies. One witch murdered your mother, and another twisted Morgana's mind. Yet you would have me believe that sorcery is nor more evil than a child's toy. I can see plainly that you have succumbed to some sort of spell. There can be no other explanation."

"Father-"

"Be silent, Arthur." Uther's hand made a slashing gesture. His voice rang through the great hall, though he had not raised it. The silence was palpable as the eyes of the court flicked between father and son. "I know who has laid this bewitchment upon you, and I curse the day I placed him into your service. I should have known from the first, should have seen the hold he had over you. No prince- and no son of mine- would have such regard for a mere serving boy. When the guards bring him here, I will give my judgment, and this spell will be lifted from you."

Long experience helped Arthur school his expression to keep the roiling fear from his face. He knew where this was leading, and he knew he would be hard pressed to move them from their course. "It sounds as though you have determined a verdict already, Majesty, and yet you always told me that even the most depraved criminals deserve a trial. Such is the course of justice in Camelot."

"Do you deny that your manservant is a sorcerer?" Uther asked. Unable to answer truly without condemning Merlin, Arthur held his tongue. "Your silence tells me all I need to know, Arthur. What need is there of a trial when guilt is known? Be calm. By nightfall, the sorcerer's head will be on a spike as a reminder of the price for practicing magic in Camelot. You think it will hurt, but like lancing an infection, it will sting for a moment and then you will heal. Think no more of it, Arthur, my decision is final."

Arthur clenched his jaw to keep his outburst behind his teeth. Anything he might saw now would only help to confirm the king's declaration in the court's eyes. History was repeating itself. As Guinevere had once been convicted of bewitching Arthur, now Merlin was, too. Only this time there would be no crazed old man to save the day. Once Camelot's guards found Merlin, they would execute him. Or they would try. The prince had no idea what Merlin would do- or could do.

He had seen his servant kill seven men with a gesture, then turn and ward off Morgana's attacks with a handful of words. And then he had told Arthur that he would rather die than live in a world where his prince wanted him dead. '_Surely he knows I don't want that.' _But if it were a thing that needed saying aloud, it was too late. All he could do now was pray that Lancelot and Percival found Merlin before the guards did.

The great doors opened behind him. The thunder of their closing echoed through the hall, and instinct spun Arthur around before he realized he was not under attack. His heart skipped a beat at the sight that greeted him.

Merlin stood amidst four guards, two with their hands clamped around Merlin's arms, two with blades nearly digging into his back. His hands were shackled in front of him. _'Too late,'_ his mind screamed as he met Merlin's terrified eyes, _'We're all too late.'_


	5. Chapter 4

_If it weren't for the sweet balm. . . ' _The thought trailed round and round in Merlin's mind as the guards marched him to the great hall. Gaius had sent him out for sweet balm among other herbs, and the best place to find it without going to the forest was the Queen's garden. As Camelot had had no queen for so long, the patch was largely unused and overgrown, but herbs and flowers still grew, and today was not the first time he had slipped in to save himself a long day's hike through the forest.

He had not noticed the uproar when he let himself back in through a side door. His thoughts had been too full of lists that needed fulfilling and the best routes through the castle to make the best time in order to finish his chores for him to notice the whispers and the people rushing about. When the hands closed about his arms, Merlin had thought nothing of that, either. Gwaine and the others were too fond of trying to startle him by grabbing him as he walked by. He normally had enough self-possession to be alert to their presence and dodge away before they could lay a hand on him. 'Try to Startle Merlin' seemed to be a long-standing contest between them. A word of congratulations had been on his lips when he started to turn and saw that the men behind him were not knights, but palace guards with stern expressions that told Merlin there was no game going on. They had the shackles on his wrists before he could blink. A growled "You're to be taken to the king," was the only explanation they gave as they hauled him down the stairs, the carefully gathered plants left scattered and crushed into the stone steps behind them.

The shackles were a curiosity. He felt the magic of them; the spells crafted into them at their forging were meant to separate the wearer from the magic of the world- the source of most sorcerers' power. But Merlin- as Gaius had pointed out so many times- was not a common sorcerer, did not summon the magic of the world with his will and a word. He _was_ magic, and the spelled shackles were weak with age and disuse and besides- they had not been meant to hold back a power such as his.

'_That was arrogant,' _the thought buzzed into Merlin's mind, nearly sending him into a fit of hysteric giggling at the doors to the great hall opened before him. Ridiculous things went through a man's mind when he was about to be sentenced to die.

Merlin bit his lip to keep any outbursts at bay. His eyes flicked about, taking in the gathered nobility, their expressions ranging from disgust to pity as they looked at him. Gaius stood near the edge of the press, his aged face nearly as white as his hair. In the center of the long room stood Arthur, his head held high, and the heavy cloth of his coat still swirling with the violence of his movement. There was no fear on the prince's face, but Merlin saw it in his eyes and knew it was mirrored in his own.

His knees cracked against the marble floor as the guards shoved him down. Their fingers dug into his shoulders and he felt the others' blades dig into his back again. The clank of his chains sounded entirely too loud against the hush in the vast room.

Beyond Arthur, the king sat back in his throne as though the weight of his own body was a burden too great to bear. Under their hooded lids, Uther's eyes were flat, like a viper's eyes before it struck; reptilian, and yet nothing like a dragon's.

_Dragons. . . _He remembered Kilgharrah's eyes as they had been in that forest clearing when a skinny, frightened boy still grieving his father's death had stepped forward and claimed mastery over the great dragon, how terrified he had been in those moments. Then he had reached deep within himself, found his father's magic waiting for him there, and tamed the beast. There had been no fear then, and no reason to fear, for he and Kilgharrah were kin. _'I have faced a dragon. Why do I fear this man?' _

Stillness washed over him. He felt his fear fade away, replaced by an eerie calm that came from within and without that glowed warm as the summer sun. Merlin's back straightened. His chin came up and a faint smile pulled at his lips. Despite the blades at his back and the magic-blunting shackles on his wrists, there was a core of strength within the warlock that could never be conquered by a man as small as Uther Pendragon.

The king's eyes narrowed at the change he saw. "When did you first bewitch my son?"

"I never have," Merlin replied, his voice loud against the hush. He felt the weight of Arthur's gaze- and Gaius's- boring into him.

"You lie," Uther said flatly. "What did you hope to accomplish by coming here and insinuating yourself in my household? Did you think to enthrall Arthur in your web of spells, to kill me and place a puppet on the throne? Did you imagine you could return Camelot to the dark days, when sorcerers sowed discord among my people?"

Merlin took a breath to speak and felt a shift in the flow of time. He had moved strangely through time before- the first time he had saved Arthur after that witch had thrown her dagger to kill him, the moments he had looked upon the Sidhe in Avalon. In those instances he had stepped between moments of time, forbidden its flow to work upon him until he chose to rejoin it. Playing with time. It all had felt so natural, even when his rational self recoiled from the idea of it. Men should not be able to walk in and out of time, after all.

This. . . This shifting, this change, the same but different, felt like a re-ordering of events, as though he was reading the story in reverse and had learned the ending before the beginning, and strange as it was, there was nothing unnatural about it. And without knowing why or what caused it, Merlin knew that this moment was a keystone, and without his next words, everything would come tumbling down.

So when a strange wind of fate played chords against Merlin's soul, he let it ring through him and speak with his voice. "This now is the truth. Though her blackest hour is yet to come, Camelot's darkest days lie behind her. When the dawn comes and Arthur takes his rightful place upon the throne, he will reign over a golden age the like of which has never been seen before and will not come again for an hundred lives of men. And still, the golden world of Camelot and the Once and Future King will live on through all the ages of men, until the very end of days. And when they speak of you, O King, it will be as the passing cloud that hides the brilliant sun, a fleeting shadow that startles for a moment and then is gone." He felt the truth of his strange words shiver through blood and bone and out into the room around him. _'Is this how prophecy feels?' _he wondered as he looked up to Arthur. The fear had fled from the prince's eyes, leaving behind something unfathomable, though the warlock sensed calm and- almost strangely to his own mind- belief.

"Enough." Uther's hand slashed through the air before him. Still awash in the wake of whatever strange power had spoken through him, Merlin said nothing. He watched the king with curiosity, waiting for the words he already knew would be said. "Do you deny that you are a sorcerer?"

Every eye turned toward him, waiting for his answer. Merlin felt a weight slowly slide away, the weight of his long held secret dissolving into the air as these odd few moments of time re-ordered themselves into their natural flow. "No," he said, "I freely admit it. I am a sorcerer. I have magic, and it is my destiny to serve the Once and Future King." The air seemed to crystallize around him Merlin, and the strange power fled, leaving him hollow as a drum as its last echoes faded. His calm remained unbroken.

"Then by your own admission, you have broken the laws of Camelot. Laws that were put into place to protect the very soul of this kingdom, without which, we would be living in an age of chaos. Despite your. . . pretty words," Uther waved a hand dismissively, his voice low and grating, "You have no justification for your many crimes, and I have no choice but to sentence you to death." There was a collective intake of breath from the court as Uther turned his attention to the guards holding Merlin. "Take him to the courtyard and behead him. _Creatures_ such as this deserve to be burned, but I'll not have him alive within these walls one moment longer than necessary."

Strange, how just minutes ago such a proclamation would have sent him reeling with terror. Now that it had passed, he was so terribly calm. If, in that very moment, the guards had doused him in oil and set him ablaze, Merlin was not sure even that could have frightened him. He met Arthur's gaze and found no fear there, either. A look of understanding passed between them, and the prince mouthed a single word. _"Go."_

Merlin nodded once and bowed his head, breathed a word of Draconic- a tongue so strange to the enchanted shackles- and let it burn the aging containment spell to dust. He let himself slip between moments of time, let everyone and everything _stop, _and rose to his feet before the chains hit the floor, his magic flooding anew within him, as strong and flowing as ever as he raised his hands toward the guards around him. Merlin stepped back into time long enough to cast at them, watch them stumble backwards in surprise. _"Astrice." _He looked to the doors then, flung the row of them open with another word. The violence of it drew the eyes of most of the crowed, and Merlin took the opportunity to shove their attention away from him, turn himself invisible for all intents and purposes, though the effort of turning away so many eyes nearly staggered him.

Then he did the only sensible thing he could do. He ran.

Through corridors and down stairways, past servants and between guards- none of whom saw him or took notice of his passing unless they looked for the source of an odd, faint breeze. Down and down and down until he reached the passages of the deep catacombs where the oldest, most secret of Camelot's siege tunnels lay. He threaded through them by sound alone, pausing only occasionally when the way split in front of him, his Mind's Eye directing him truly, until he reached a narrow, overgrown gate beyond the city walls. Outside, he smelled the free air, but the warning bells were already ringing.

Merlin gave himself a moment to catch his breath before popping the locks on the grate, sealing them behind him to cover the signs of his passage before running headlong into the forest. That he did not catch an arrow in the back from the guards on the wall was a small miracle. _"Maybe they didn't see me?" _he hoped as he glanced back. A pang of regret stung at his eyes. Uther was awake again, Morgana and Morgause lurked beyond Camelot's borders, and he was about to leave Arthur to face it all alone. He raked a hand through his hair, searching for the calm that had settled on him in the throne room.

_'You can't serve Arthur at all without a head on your shoulders. Alive, you can find a way through. You don't have another choice.' _Well, he had protected Arthur while exiled in the forest. He could do the same again. But first, he needed to escape. Eyeing the faint tracks behind him, he sent half a dozen identical trails into the trees as far as his Mind's Eye would allow. It would fool the men, but if they had dogs- and they likely would- he would need better cover.

Going back was not an option. Within Camelot's walls, he would be killed on sight, and there was only so long he could remain free and only so many places he could hide. Going to the Druids was not an option, either. He refused to bring a hunt down on them again; even he could learn from his mistakes. The borderlands were too far away and he could not leave Camelot- and Arthur- unprotected. That left one real option. "Broceliande," Merlin breathed. Broceliande, the haunted wood and its winter lady, the Queen of Air and Darkness. The choice brought its own perils, but it was that, or the hunt. The faerie queen, at least, would give him a chance to live. With his time to decide quickly running out, Merlin took a deep breath and plunged into the Darkling Wood.


	6. Chapter 5

He heard hounds baying in the distance. Though the forest was quiet, the trees made sound move strangely. They could have been closing in on him, or been leagues away, howling at their inability to find a trail. The only thing of which Merlin was certain was that no matter how far away they were, they were too close. He could not outrun dogs or horses, and for all his powers, greater numbers still could overwhelm him, and a single arrow could kill him.

He shivered at the thought. Or perhaps it was the cold water he splashed on his face that made chills course down his spine. He took a few sparing sips from the stream before striding through the shallow waters. Though the dogs would not be fooled by the false trails he had laid down, they could not track him through water, while the men might find some trace of his passage in the shallow stream. Either way, it was hardly a tenable situation for the warlock. Broceliande was still far away, and the hunters were too, too close.

He caught himself looking back toward Camelot instead of forward and paid for it when his foot found a loose stone that sent him sprawling into the stream. Another time, the cold water might have felt good. The day was hot and without a breeze, and the air was thick and oppressive. But the fall slowed him and his cold, sodden clothes only added to his misery.

His hand stung where the edge of a broken stone had caught it. Blood welled out of the cut in fat droplets, falling into the water and trailing a line of pink as they flowed away. Merlin's heart sank. Could hunting hounds catch the scent of their quarry's blood in water? He tried to recall Arthur's endless discourses on hunting and hounds, but nothing came to mind. His own knowledge was limited to the care and feeding of the dogs, not their tracking abilities.

'_Maybe they'll remember that I was kind to them. . . '_ As he thought it, Merlin knew it was a vain hope. Even if they were Arthur's dogs and not another's, it was useless to hang his hopes on the memories of dogs to recall his kindnesses. Whether he had been cruel or kind, a pack of hunting hounds would tear him apart all the same, and even if they did not their masters would not hesitate to bury an arrow in his heart. With a growl of pure frustration, Merlin tested his throbbing ankle, sealed the gash in his hand with a whisper of magic, and pressed on up the stream.

The hounds sounded more distant now. Perhaps the hunting party had taken the long way around the wide deadfall his own Mind's Eye had guided him straight through. At any rate, he had to get out of the stream. The water was growing deeper while the banks grew steeper and higher. If he kept going this way, he would be hard-pressed to climb back out.

Merlin scrabbled up onto dry land and took a moment to shake the water from his boots, wincing at the slimy squelching around his toes as he settled into a fast jog, his long legs eating up ground as he dodged around trees and rocks, taking note of the land's gentle rising. It should have been a dreary day bathed in a shadows and grayness; the forest should have been full of spidery trees and thorns, such was the warlock's mood. Instead, as he ran for his life, the forest bloomed with as much beauty as it could. Vivid flowers contrasted against the rich greens of the leaves and the shadows were broken up by speckled golden sunlight. A blackbird sang above him. Yes, it was too beautiful to be so terrified.

_'If only. . . '_ A thought took shape before he could stop it, _'If only Uther had just died last winter when he first took ill. Then Arthur would be king, and everything would be better.'_ It was a thought worthy of Morgana. His throat tightened in shame and he staggered to a halt, coughing and gasping as his lungs grabbed for the air he needed. Merlin held a shaking hand up to his face and knew only part of it came from the effort of his long run. The rest was fear. Fear for Arthur, fear for his friends. Even fear for himself, a feeling he thought he had buried long ago.

When that strange note of destiny sounded through him in the throne room, the words he had spoken had been for Arthur's sake, to give the prince hope through what trials lay ahead. But none of that hope was left behind for the messenger. Everything Fate worked through him was for Arthur. Always for Arthur, and never for the servant. Sometimes Merlin cursed Fate for being such a cruel mistress, for leaving him without answers or even with hope for himself. He had thought he had forgotten how to fear, but in truth he was so inured to its steady thrum that he had forgotten any other way to live, as when a body so long in pain forgets the freedom of good health.

Merlin swiped at his eyes and grabbed a low branch to pull himself up, shoving away those thoughts as best he could. If he survived this, then- only then- he would let himself wallow in misery. But he had to live through the day first. He let his Mind's Eye open again, the vividness of the forest brightening further, the sparks of animal life shimmering in and out of his vision as he sent his sight far afield to find the hounds and the hunters who followed them. His heart sank at what he saw. While the dogs had lost the trail at the stream's edge, the hunters had not. Some disturbed bit of moss or stone had betrayed the warlock's passage. The tale only grew worse when the lead hunter looked up, revealing himself to be Lord Pynell, a man who loathed sorcery even more than the king did, and who was known for his hunting prowess. Merlin had hidden from the man once before, in Broceliande before Arthur lifted his exile and brought him home. If there could be a worse man to have dogging his steps, Merlin could not think of one. The only bright spot in the picture was Leon's presence, standing on the bank above Pynell with the horses and the dog handlers. A tightness around his eyes betrayed the knight's nervousness. Arthur must have sent him along to delay Pynell as best he could.

He hoped.

Whatever the reason, they were too close. Merlin blinked the forest back into focus and took off again, heedless of the tracks he left behind. It was too late to worry about stealth. He needed speed now, and the land seemed inclined to cooperate as the trees gave way to a long, grassy meadow. Overhead, clouds were building. He felt the promise of a coming storm vibrate through the air. It would not come in time to wash his trail away, though. _'I can't be that lucky._'

The sun was falling low over the trees when the hounds started baying again. Pynell must have found the point where Merlin left the stream and let the dogs run ahead. There was little to stop them now. The land was too clear for that. Only a few rocks and a lightning-scarred tree trunk had blocked his frantic path as the land steadily rose higher. He tried to keep his breathing even as he ran. Giving in to the panic that ate at the edges of his mind would get him killed as surely as if he stopped now and waited for them.

The burning in his lungs and legs had dulled to a numb tingle. Merlin had been pulling strength from the land, but if he fell now, he was not sure that he would be able to get up again. The growing sound of the dogs pushed him on faster. He thought he heard hoofbeats now, and the calls of the men. He saw a shadow rising in front of him- Broceliande.

Perhaps twenty feet ahead the land dropped into a precarious rocky slope, and a quarter of a mile after the ground leveled out, the first shadows of that perilous forest darkening the landscape. Merlin skidded to a halt at the ridge's edge and risked a glance back. The hunters had pulled to a halt, and the hounds were putting up an unholy fuss as their handlers called them off. _'Why. . . ?' _Merlin squinted, but the storm clouds had built high enough to drop the land into a murky gloom. Gazing from sunlight into shadow, he could not tell what they were doing. The shadows were catching up to him, though, and given enough time his eyes would adjust. He decided not to give them that time.

He turned his attention back to the ridge to find the best way down. It was not steep, but there was enough loose earth that a misstep would send him tumbling to the bottom and break bones, leaving him nearly defenseless against the hunters. _'And that would be the end of me,' _was the giddy thought as he spied a series of rock ledges that looked promising and moved toward the edge, barely taking note of a strange buzzing behind him.

Something punched him in the back, high on his shoulder. A fiery jolt of pain blossomed through him and stole his breath away, turning his vision grey for a long moment. He blinked it clear in time to see the ground rushing up at him, too quickly for Merlin to react and grab at anything to slow his fall. His arms flailed out, one hand catching something hard- a rock, maybe- that wrenched his arm around before tearing out of his grasp. As the rest of him hit the ground and started sliding downward, he heard a loud _pop_. Another spike of agony shot through him, blurring his senses until he came to a sudden, grinding halt at the bottom of the ridge.

He lay still for a time, too dazed to move. His vision grayed in and out and back again until he finally focused on the sky above and his battered body drew in a choking breath. He tasted dirt on his lips, and blood, and as the throbbing in his arms gave way to a white numbness, Merlin felt the rocks at his back and the distant stinging of the cuts and scrapes he had collected on his way down the hill. He looked down at himself and saw a strange growth sprouting from his chest. _'An arrow,'_ he laughed, noticing a strange hysteria in the sound of it until the laughter turned into rapid gasps he could not quite control. _'That's why they stopped. You can't fire a longbow from horseback. . . ' _

It should have hurt when he moved his arm. It should have burned like the hottest fire and shoved him back into unconsciousness. He felt broken ends of bone grind against each other, knew that that was very wrong, but the pain was a distant thing. He grasped the arrow with clumsy fingers and wrenched it free. A short length of bloody, broken shaft came with it. He shivered. His breath came in shorter gasps as his hand dropped to his side. The arrowhead skittered away from his bloodied fingers. His head lolled back against the rocky slope.

He saw people at the top of the ridge, vaguely outlined against the sky. One had a long, slender something in front of him, his arm crooked back in a familiar gesture. Instinct told him it was a threatening movement, told him to flick his fingers a certain way and say a certain word to protect himself, so he did. Something buzzed and then clattered along the ground nearby. An angry shout sounded from above, then more words and the baying of hounds.

His magic flooded back into him. His head cleared enough for him to understand what was about to happen to him. The hunters had caught up to him. Broken as he was, he could not run or fight, and his magic would keep him safe only so long against a well-armed foe. And when they released the hounds, an arrow in the throat would seem merciful. Merlin doubted Pynell would grant him even that much.

A memory whispered in his ear, of Morgana screaming. In his mind, her screams were as loud as the hounds, her crimson dress as bright as the sky was dark above him. A tower fell. He remembered how Morgana had used magic to escape the collapse, sending herself and her sister far away to safety. '_You can do the same thing,' _a voice not his own breathed, _'Just trust. . . '_

_Trust. . . _Was there anything else he _could_ do?

The first hound reached him. He felt the heat of its breath against his face, heard the huff of its breath and the snapping jaws.

Then he opened wide to his magic and let himself trust Fate. As darkness claimed him, Merlin gave himself to the wind.


	7. Chapter 6

Arthur scowled at the rain and drew the cloak's heavy hood low over his eyes. He cast a suspicious glance around and caught the door before it could slam behind him, then hurried down the dark street. In the uproar following Merlin's disappearance, the prince had sent George to tell the knights to gather at Guinevere's house in the lower town. He had hoped to bring Leon- and news- with him, but Pynell's hunting party had yet to return.

They could not stay out too long, he knew. Though well armed, Pynell had not had time to provision himself for a hunt of any length. Perhaps he thought it would be over too quickly to need supplies. His horses were fast, after all, and his hounds were clever. Arthur shivered, and not because of the rain. Pynell was hunting, and Merlin was his quarry. The prince tried to recall how many other sorcerers had escaped from similar hunts and came up with a only a handful. Even with his magic, the odds were not stacked in Merlin's favor.

"You there!" A rough voice called from behind him, "Declare yourself!"

Arthur turned and stood his ground until the guardsmen approached lanterns in hand. He stood up to his full height and pushed his hood back just far enough to uncover his eyes. Even in the rain and dim light, the guards saw who they were accosting. "Is there a problem?" he pulled his best commander's voice from some chamber of memory.

Their eyes widened as they each sketched a bow. "N-nothing, sire. Just on our rounds, sire, keeping the peace," the first guard stammered, "Is there aught we can help you with, sire?"

_'Stop saying "sire", for one,' _Arthur grimaced and waved them off. "Be about your business. I have matters to attend to in town." The dismissal in his tone was clear, and the two guards hurried away before they could get themselves in real trouble. He shook his head as he walked on. It was already beginning, he saw, the paranoia that settled on the city whenever his father's commands bent in dark directions. Enough men had gone to the hangman's noose for associating in common ways with sorcerers, or those suspected of it for the people to be justifiably afraid. Word of Uther's return to the throne had spread like plague through Camelot. Now the people feared what new troubles his supposed madness would rain down on them.

He was nearly soaked through when he reached Guinevere's house. The curtains were tightly drawn over the windows, but a sliver of light shone in one. Arthur knocked lightly on the door and saw one of the curtains rustle before the door opened a crack. Elyan peered through. "Arthur!" he exclaimed before opening the door wide enough for the prince to slip in.

Guinevere was in his arms before he could say anything, heedless of his sodden cloak. He held her close for a moment, soaking in her warmth before peeling away to save her from being dripped upon. "What's happened, Arthur? We've hardly heard a thing since you went to see your father, but Gwaine says that Merlin was taken by the guards and that the whole city knows what he is."

Arthur glanced around, found Gwaine lurking in the shadows at the far end of the little room. Percival leaned against the wall by the fire, his arms crossed in front of him and a worried look in his eyes; Lancelot knelt nearby, staring into the flames. Even from the side, Arthur could read what was written on the knight's face- worry and guilt. It did not take an oracle to know what he was thinking. If only they had found Merlin first, instead of the guards, then they would not be here right now. And it was just going to get worse when the prince shared his news. He sighed, "That's true. My father asked Merlin outright if he was a sorcerer, and he said yes."

"But why?" Guinevere's fingers faltered as she tugged the dripping cloak from Arthur's shoulders, "Why would he condemn himself like that?"

"I don't know," Arthur sank onto the bench at the table and picked up an apple, slowly turning it round and round in his hands. "I've seen all manner of criminals face my father's judgment. Some beg for mercy, others are defiant."

"Merlin's not a criminal," Gwaine growled from the shadows.

"I know that," Arthur stared back, holding Gwaine's gaze until the other man looked away. "I've seen all manner of reactions," he went on, "But this. . . I've never seen anything like it. He was terrified when they brought him in. He knew what the sentence would be as well as I did. But while my father was questioning him, something seemed to come over him. It was as if my father was the one on his knees, not Merlin. I've seen him like that before, before a battle, always with the right thing to say. I always thought he was a bit touched in the head when he went on like that. He was always right, though. Always knew we would be victorious. But never. . . never quite like that."

"Arthur?" Guinevere sat across from him, her brows knit in concern, "Why are you talking like that's all in the past? What's happened?"

He looked up abruptly and met her gaze, saw the fear in her dark eyes and resisted the urge to reach across the table and brush the errant strands of hair from her face. He shrugged instead. "Merlin disappeared. My father told the guards to take him to the square and cut off his head. I told him to go, and he did. Broke the shackles, pushed the guards away, threw the doors open and just vanished. I was looking right at him, and then he was gone."

"Is that what the warning bells were about?" Lancelot did not look up from the fire.

"Yes. Father sent Lord Pynell out to hunt him down. Not even to bring him back, just to. . . " Arthur could not bring himself to finish that sentence.

"Merlin against Pynell's hunters? Those aren't good odds, Princess. Even for him."

"I know," Arthur glanced at Gwaine, but the other man's glare was fixed on Lancelot's back. There was a conflict in the making, and one Arthur did not need now, or ever. "That's why I sent Leon with them, to delay them as best he could. I couldn't go. My father thinks Merlin bewitched me," his laugh held no humor, nor did Guinevere's when he caught her eye. She was familiar with such accusations; Uther had nearly sent her to the pyre for the same false crime.

"What do we do now?" she asked.

"Right now, we wait until Leon comes back." Arthur picked up a worn paring knife and tested its edge before setting it to the apple. The metal was dark with age and use, but the blade was true. Just like the people around him- weary and afraid, but as loyal as any prince could wish for. Even if Gwaine did look like he was about to launch himself at Lancelot to throw the other knight into the fire, and Lancelot looked like he would let Gwaine do it. That had to stop. Arthur finished coring the apple and set it down, turning so he could see both of the other men. "Lancelot, Gwaine, look at me. Both of you." He waited for their reluctant gazes to meet his. "Whatever happens now, I need you to serve Camelot as you swore to do. The people need knights, not men out to punish themselves and each other for happenings beyond their control.

"Today in the throne room," he continued, "Merlin said that Camelot's darkest hour was still to come, and when that happens- whatever happens- I need to know that my knights will serve this kingdom. Now. Do I have your swords?" Lancelot looked stricken at that, and Gwaine smothered some of the fire in his eyes. But both nodded. "Good. Whatever conflict is between you two is just that. Between the two of you. Sort it out on your own time. We serve the people of Camelot, not ourselves."

The crackling of the fire was loud in the quiet that followed. Overhead, the rain kept up its steady beat against the roof, though the thatch muffled it. Somewhere in the back, a leak made itself known by pinging into a bucket. Arthur picked up the apple and paring knife and commenced to cutting the fruit into ever-smaller pieces. With all the nervous energy dancing through his bones, he would much rather have been up and pacing about, or fighting, or just screaming his frustrations at the clouds. Somewhere, though, probably from Merlin, he had learned to hold himself in stillness. A leader could not afford to see seen as nervous, or it would infect those who followed. Just as a fearful king bred fearful subject, so a nervous prince bred nervous knights. Better to hold that energy within and drive himself mad with it than to let it infect his knights.

"What do you think he meant?" Percival finally spoke up and everyone looked at him, "You said that Merlin said that Camelot's darkest hour was still to come. What do you think he meant?"

Arthur opened his mouth to answer, but Gwaine beat him to it. "Uther's gone mad. We all saw what Morgana did to him when she stole his crown. It broke his mind. Now that he's back on his feet, what's the first thing he's going to do? Root out every trace of magic he can find, real or not, and burn every sorcerer he can get his hands on. We'll be back in the days of witch-hunts. He'll get all those witchfinders the Marcher lords wanted to hire last spring and set them loose on the countryside. No one will be safe."

"Surely it won't come to that," worry deepened in Guinevere's eyes, "And besides. We're almost at war with Amata. How can we hire anyone from there?"

"I mean no disrespect, Gwen, but I've been a lot of places and seen a lot of men. Most will do just about anything for a pocketful of gold," Gwaine stalked toward a window and pulled the curtain aside just far enough to peer out. When the darkness revealed nothing new, he shook his head and tugged the curtain back into place.

"You're lousy at reassuring people, Gwaine," Elyan said. He squeezed his sister's shoulder and gave her a tight smile.

"Just telling the truth."

"And you choose to do it right now?" Elyan shook his head in disbelief and plopped down next to Guinevere. "He has the lousiest timing of anyone I've ever met." She chuckled and leaned into her brother, who responded with a one-armed hug. At least that bond had not been affected by the day's events, though Arthur wished he could trade Elyan places at the table.

A loud knock on the door startled them all into silence and they turned as one to stare at it. The knock sounded again, more insistent this time. Elyan rose to answer, setting his foot behind the door so whoever was on the other side could not force it open. He let the door swing aside a handspan, and his shoulders sagged with relief at who he found. "It's Lucan and Leon," he said, throwing a relieved look back at them before stepping aside to the let the soggy knights in.

"Leon." Arthur stood to greet the man as he pulled at the clasps of his drenched cloak. His eyes were red-rimmed and his face was lined with care and exhaustion. "What's happened? Did you find Merlin?"

Leon nodded and gave Guinevere a tired smile as she took his cloak. "Yes, we found him. Caught up to him less than a mile from Broceliande." He held a small leather pouch up to the firelight to pick at the knots.

"And . . . ?" Arthur asked breathlessly.

"He's gone. Disappeared. We searched until the rain began, but this was the only trace we found," Leon said as he finally tugged the bag open and emptied the contents into his hand. "I don't know where he went, or how, or even. . . " He licked his lips before continuing, "All I know is that Pynell shot him in the back, but Merlin managed to get away in spite of it. As for the rest? I don't know." He stepped over to the table and gently placed his tiny burden down. It glinted dully in the firelight.

Arthur's heart sank as he picked it up and held it to the light. It was a steel broadhead- an arrow used in war to kill quickly from a distance. This one was unbroken, but still attached to a few inches of a splintered, blood-encrusted shaft. Dark flakes of rust-red crumbled onto his fingers. _'Merlin's blood.'_ Arthur did his best to shove away his fears, but it was nigh impossible. Merlin had escaped, Leon said, but they all knew what an arrow wound could do to a man. He had evaded the hunters, yes, but alone and injured Death still stalked the sorcerer.


	8. Chapter 7

"He led us on a hell of a chase." Leon flashed Guinevere a grateful smile as she pressed a cup of mulled wine into his hands. "Every time he stopped, Merlin laid down half a dozen false trails. We had to stop each time the path split, take time to find the right one- I tried to point us down the wrong ones, but Pynell trusts his dogs more than he does me. Another time, we had to take the long way around a giant deadfall, while Merlin had gone through it, straight as you please. I thought we were going to lose him there, and then again at the stream, but. . . " Leon shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "He was getting tired. I could tell. He was getting sloppy. I suppose if Pynell hadn't had his longbow to hand, I'd be telling a different story."

"You did what you could, Leon. Thank you," Arthur said from his place by the fire.

"I wish I could have done more," the knight said as he stared into the depth of his wine. "I thought he was dead when we looked over that crag. Then he moved and Pynell decided to put another arrow in him. Merlin did something to it, because it seemed to hit something mid-flight and went off into the rocks. That's when Pynell put up a howl and set the dogs on him. God." Leon shuddered and looked up at the prince, his eyes haunted, "They were on him, Arthur. The first dog was about to tear out his throat. And then. . . there was this wind out of nowhere, and Merlin was gone. Not a trace left behind except that broken arrow. And a lot of blood."

Leon went quiet, downing half his wine in a single draught as though it would wash away the day's memories. "Pynell kept up the search until the rain started and wiped everything away. We got back not long ago, and he went straight to the king. I told him I'd see to the horses."

"That didn't take long," Gwaine scoffed, "You sure we're not going to end up with a stable full of sick horses in the morning?" The brash knight had retreated further into the shadows as Leon told his tale, his mood growing darker in turn.

"The horses are fine. I saw to it that the stable hands looked after them. Lucan found me straight away and told me to come here."

"Thank you, Leon. I know you did what you could." Arthur said before Gwaine could find another angle to criticize Leon from. Sometimes the prince wondered who Gwaine was more loyal to- the crown he had sworn his oaths to, or the sorcerer who had brought him to Camelot in the first place.

"What do we do now?" Guinevere's voice quavered, "Even if Merlin is safe wherever he is, your father won't stop. People with magic haven't been hiding the way they used to, and even the Druids are more visible than they used to be. Your father. . ."

"My father will burn every last one of them. He'll unleash a second Purge on Camelot, and no one will be safe." Arthur turned away from them to stare into the fire, keeping his chin up and a shiver from running down his spine by sheer force of will. It had not been so terribly long since pyres had lit up the main square, and the screams of the dying drowned out the roar of the flames.

They were all waiting for him, he knew. Waiting for his plan to deal with the next days, to find Merlin, to make things right again. He wished he had a plan for any one of those three things instead of the rabbitish plan building in his mind since Leon had told them of Merlin's escape. "Elyan," he finally turned back to the rest of them, "Is there anyone outside the city that you and Guinevere can stay with until things settle down again?"

The siblings exchanged worried glances. "We have friends of the family in Longstead, in the Feorre Mountains- John and Mary," Elyan said, "Why? Do you mean to send us away?"

"For your own safety, yes." Arthur held Guinevere's gaze for a long moment. "He believed you guilty of sorcery once. If he sees you again, he might remember that and accuse you again. I won't let that happen." She swallowed back her tears and nodded her acceptance of the idea. So brave, she was. Sometimes even more than Arthur himself. "Will you go with them, Percival?" He asked without looking away from her. "I don't like it when my knights travel alone, and I doubt the people of Longstead would mind having two knights of Camelot protecting them for a time."

"Of course, Sire. When should we leave?"

"At first light. Earlier, if you can. And you three," he looked at Lucan, Lancelot, and Gwaine in turn, "I want you to go north. I need eyes I can trust on the border with Amata."

"What!" Gwaine barked as he surged out of the shadows, "Now that things are getting a little harder, you want us to run away? Skulk about like spies in the middle of nowhere?"

Lucan locked a hand on Gwaine's shoulder and shoved him back against the wall. "Shut your mouth and listen for once, lad. Your prince is making sense."

"Where's the sense in it?"

"You're common-born, and I knighted you, Gwaine," Arthur said, "There is a. . . a madness growing in my father, and if he cannot vent his anger on Merlin, he'll turn his eye on anyone else near me who doesn't meet with his approval. Do you want to face the headsman for conspiring with a sorcerer? No?" he leveled a steely gaze at Gwaine until his reasoning finally cut through the knight's anger. "Then you'll head north with Lucan. It's not as though I'm sending you to a pleasure garden in Nemeth. The Sarrum deals harshly with Camelot's agents when he finds them within his lands, so stay on this side of the border and stay out of sight."

He waited until Gwaine finally nodded his assent and then looked over at Lancelot. "Does this meet with your approval?" Lancelot had nothing to add but a nod. "Good. Leon, you have the advantage of having been knighted by my father and coming from one of the first families of Camelot, but you'd do well to keep your head down, too."

"I'm sure there are some preparations that need attending to before winter comes. And my sister complains that I don't spend enough time at home," Leon gave Arthur a humorless smile.

Arthur nodded and studied each of them in turn, noting the fear and the worry in their eyes. And the determination on every face. It sparked a bit of hope within him, to know that even in these suddenly dark times, his men- and his lady- were without question. _'And I can only hope that it's not to a fault.' _

"How will we know when it's safe to return?" asked Guinevere.

"When a new king sits the throne of Camelot," Gwaine spoke up first, matching Arthur's stern look with one of his own. "Don't give me that look, Arthur. You know it's true. Your father won't stop until he thinks he's found every last sorcerer and killed them, and by then Camelot will be a kingdom of corpses. There's your darkest hour."

"Well, they say the darkest hour comes just before the dawn," Lucan said, not quite voicing the thought on everyone's mind: for Camelot to be safe once more, Uther would have to die. Arthur blanched at the idea; it was a nightmarish trade- his people for his father. Lucan interrupted the prince's thoughts with a clap on the shoulder and a vaguely reassuring smile before calling back to Lancelot and Gwaine, "Come on, lads. We've an early morning ahead of us and preparations to make." They followed reluctantly, clasping hands with the prince one last time before disappearing into the darkness and the rain.

"We should prepare, as well, if we're to ride out at dawn." Guinevere took Arthur's hand. He drew her close. Elyan, Leon, and Percival did their best to pretend they were somewhere else. "Promise me you'll be careful?"

"I'll try," he smirked, wrapping his arms around her waist as she rested her head against his chest. Arthur closed his eyes, memorizing all her details- the warm, sweet scent of her hair, the feeling of her breathing, the taste of her kiss. . . "Take care of yourself, too. I couldn't bear to lose you," he said when he finally drew away, whispering the last into her ear. Tears rolled down her cheeks when she looked up at him, and he brushed them away. "Here, now. Don't do that. It won't be so bad. You'll still have Elyan to beat up on."

That put a reluctant smile on her lips. "Here," she said pulling a ribbon out of her hair, letting it fall in dark waves down her back, "A knight is supposed to have his lady's favor, isn't he?" Arthur let her tie it around his wrist, for once not commenting on how ridiculous the pale blue ribbon looked there. She was right. A knight needed to wear his lady's favor, even if it would have to be hidden away too soon. "You keep that safe. It's my favorite, and I'll want it back."

"It'll be safe as houses," Arthur promised, grimacing as the city bells tolled midnight. "I should go. They'll be wondering where I am. Send word if you can- as secretly as you can- when you reach Longstead," he said as much to Elyan and Percival as to Guinevere.

"We'll try," she promised. She shuffled about for a moment before finding his cloak, half-dried, and helped him drape it across his shoulders while Elyan did the same for Leon.

"Be careful, all three of you. Should anything happen to my father, or. . . to me, I have a feeling word will spread quickly enough. And keep them out of trouble for me, will you?" he asked Guinevere.

The reluctant smile returned, "I'll do my best."

He did his best to smile at her before closing the door behind him. It felt fake, like his face was about to crack and fall off or dissolve in the rain, but it was the best he had to offer her. The sound of the latch falling shut was like a death knell. Arthur shuddered and took a breath to steady himself before stepping into the rain.

They hunched against the downpour as they hurried down the street. Leon turned to look back at Arthur once they reached the relative cover of the citadel wall. "They'll be all right. Sending them out of harm's way was the best thing you could have done. You father would hound them to no end, otherwise. You had nothing but bad choices, Arthur."

"I know," Arthur said, "I just wish I didn't have to send them away to protect them from their King."


	9. Chapter 8

George was waiting when Arthur and Leon returned to the prince's chambers. The tedious servant fidgeted with the candlesticks on the table, idly setting and re-setting them. He would wear a track in the wood if he kept on with the task, but he jumped to attention when Arthur burst through the door. If he had had a hat, he would have twisted it to shreds by now. "What is it, George?" Arthur asked as he tossed his sodden cloak over the chair's back.

"Sire. Sir Leon," George nodded to the prince. He looked like he was about to throw up. "Your father bids you 'tend upon him immediately. Sir Leon, as well."

Arthur threw an exasperated glance out the window and raked a hand through his hair. "It's after midnight. Surely it can wait until morning?"

"He said immediately, Sire."

Arthur bit back the angry retort. It was hardly George's fault he was caught between a king and a prince at war with each other. As a 'mere servant', Arthur could only imagine with what sorts of dire warnings and threats his father had laid into the man. "He probably wants me to return the royal seal and the signet ring. It could have waited until tomorrow," he muttered as he unlocked the desk drawer where the ring and seal were stored, setting the bloodied arrowhead in the ring's place, followed by the pale ribbon Guinevere had given him. "Come on, then," he gestured for Leon to follow.

Uther was at his own desk when they arrived, surrounded by piles of parchments and the glow of two dozen candles. Gaius stood just inside the circle of light, but Arthur did not need the full brightness to see the worry- and fear- glinting in the physician's eyes. He met Gaius's gaze as calmly as he could before turning back to the king. "You wanted to see me, father?"

"Arthur," Uther acknowledged his son without looking up. "I've been reading through the kingdom's records and reports from last autumn until now. I have to admit that I'm pleased with your handling of the situations. You've managed to successfully negotiate peace terms with Odin and Caerleon, the kingdom is prosperous, and it seems as though the harvest will produce record yields."

Arthur snapped his mouth shut to keep his jaw dropping further. Praise was not what he had been expecting when he walked through the door. "I, uh. . . Yes. Things have been going well for Camelot this year, though Urien has yet to accept our ambassadors into his kingdom to negotiate new terms for peace."

"Cenred's uncle and heir, yes. There are rumors he has allied himself with Morgause?" Arthur nodded to confirm it. Uther scowled, "Then he has fallen far, to consort with witches and sorcerers. I would not have thought him so weak. I see also that you are preparing to send two thousand men north to Blackheath?"

"Yes. The Sarrum has been testing our defenses all along the border, and Blackheath is the weakest point. Without the reinforcements, the castle may fall if the Sarrum-"

"They're not going north," Uther cut the prince short. "The Sarrum has always tested our defenses, Arthur. It's what he does. He'll roar for a season to try to frighten us, but in the end he always returns home. I will not send two thousand of our men to winter in Blackheath while a greater threat eats at the heart of Camelot."

_'The threat of your hatred and vengeance?' _Arthur managed to keep those words behind his teeth, choosing a different tack instead, "And just what threat would that be?" Each word was clipped and hard, and everyone in the room knew the answer before the question was finished.

"The threat of sorcery. I thought I had put an end to it, executed enough of its practitioners to destroy it forever but I see that I failed in that. I don't want to return Camelot to the days of the first Purge, but I see no other choice. Sorcery is an evil that must be stamped out before it can spread out once more and sink its poison into the land." Arthur's jaw clenched at the casual way the king made the announcement, as though he were declaring that the walls needed repairing, or that it would hot on the morrow.

"Father-"

Uther cut him off again. "Do not argue with me, Arthur. It must be done. I don't blame you or Gaius for falling under that boy's spell, but he has corrupted you long enough. Lord Pynell informed me that Merlin used sorcery to escape tonight, but that he was injured and seemed likely to die soon. To be sure, Pynell and his hunters will depart in the morning, weather permitting, to continue the hunt. When they find the boy, they will put him to death and that will be the end of it.

"Until that time," Uther continued as he dipped the tip of his quill into the inkwell and scratched his signature onto a parchment, "I cannot be sure that his hold over you is broken. For the security of the realm and for your own safety, I am removing you from your place as commander of Camelot's armies."

"What?" Arthur exclaimed, slamming the seal against the desk. He leaned forward to look the king straight in the eye, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. "The knights are _my_ responsibility, Father. They have followed me through thick and thin. You can't just remove me like. . . like you'd push a dog out of the way."

Uther spread a bit of sand across his signature to dry the ink and calmly faced his son. "This is a temporary thing, Arthur. Only until I am sure that this enchantment has worn off. Until that time, Sir Leon will command the armies. He is a man of good family and knows how to follow his king's orders. I am certain that he will not fail in his quest to rid Camelot of the sorcerers and Druids that plague her." The king looked over Arthur's shoulder. "Sir Leon, I trust that you will do your utmost to serve the interests of Camelot in these dark times?"

Arthur turned to find Leon standing stock still, his eyes wide and mouth agape. "I- Yes. Yes, Majesty. I will do my utmost to serve this kingdom."

"Very well, then." Uther brushed the sand off the parchment, rolled it, and held it out for the knight to take, "This royal warrant puts you in command of Camelot's armies until such a time as Arthur can take them up again. Prepare your men to leave within two days' time. I want the knights to begin combing the forests for sorcerers or Druids. No quarter shall be given. Leave no stone unturned."

Leon's hands trembled as he took the parchment from the king. "Is there anything else, Majesty?"

"No, Sir Leon. You are dismissed." Uther waved him away and waited until the door closed behind the knight before turning back to Arthur. "I know you think I'm too harsh in this ruling, Arthur, but you do not remember the chaos of the old days, when magic was permitted in the Five Kingdoms. Without the strength of men like Pynell, like me, who knew what needed to be done and had the courage to do it, Camelot would have fallen. Remember what Morgause did to Morgana, how she took a sweet and loving girl and twisted her into a servant of darkness? Remember all the times that sorcerers used magic to try to kill you? Think on that in these next few days, Arthur. In time, you'll come to see that I am right."

"I may surprise you, Majesty." Arthur stood straight again as he laid the signet ring on the desk in front of the king. "By law, I am bound to return the royal seal and ring to you, now that you are recovered. And now that I have been stripped of my responsibilities, I seem to be of no further use to you, so I will retire for the night. Good night, my lord." He sketched a formal bow to Uther and strode out of the room before the king could object.

Leon was waiting for him outside. He winced as the echoes of the door's slamming echoed down the hallway, causing the guards to jump and watch, wide-eyed, as the prince stormed away. "Come with me, Sir Leon."

The knight followed, but neither said a word until they had reached Arthur's chambers. "I'm sorry, Arthur," Leon said when the door closed between them and the prying eyes outside in the castle. "I didn't want. . . this," he tossed the warrant on the table and sank into the first chair he saw, burying his face in his hands. "What do I do now? I can't just start hunting people down."

"I know," Arthur pulled out another chair and dropped into it, staring blankly toward the window. There was a rustling from the far end of the room. He looked up to find George emerging from the shadows.

"Should I leave, Sire?" George's voice shook. It was the first time Arthur had heard anything but obsequious competence in the man's voice.

He took a breath to dismiss the servant, then stopped as something Guinevere had said came to mind. _'We servants have our ways._' A faint smirk tugged at his lips before he forced it away. "No, George, stay. Bring us some wine, if you would." George nodded and set about the task, grateful to have something to do other than fidget. "As for what you'll do now," he looked back to Leon, "You'll serve Camelot, as you swore to do when you were knighted. To uphold her laws and defend her people. All her people. It's what I told Merlin when I found him, and I haven't changed my mind."

"But how can I defend them when I'm being sent out into the forest to hunt them down?"

"It's a large forest. There are a lot of places to hide. And I'm sure sorcerers- and others- have many ways of finding out about the goings-on in Camelot. Secrets are not always as secret as the king thinks they are," Arthur said archly, giving George a knowing look as he poured the wine. The servant looked back and blushed, bobbing his head as he went about his work. "And we both know it would be foolish for the knights of Camelot to enter the Broceliande Wood. As much as my father would hate to admit it, the magic in that forest is still strong, and it would attack those who seek to harm it, or those who seek shelter within."

"Then we'll have to give the forest a wide berth," Leon said. His gaze flicked back and forth between the prince and his servant as George shuffled about.

"That would be a good idea," Arthur said lightly. "George, that will be all for now. I seem to have nothing to do tomorrow morning, since the king has removed me from command, so once you've brought my breakfast and finished the bath, you'll have a half day for yourself. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Sire. I do." George nodded and bowed deep before disappearing out the door.

Leon watched him go, then turned wary eyes back to the prince. "Was that wise, Arthur, to say all that in front of him?"

"That was the point, Leon. I may not have the authority over the knights anymore, but I can still tell servants what to do. My father ignores them, thinks they're worthless," Arthur sipped his wine and relaxed into his chair. "And though I'll deny it if you ever tell Merlin, I have learned that servants are anything but useless."

"But how can you be sure that George won't just run off and report to your father?"

"He won't. George is very conscious of his position and won't risk dismissal from my service to speak against me. Besides. His sister served the late Lady Margaret d'Albray, who was burned as a witch some five years back. The girl escaped execution, but she was imprisoned for months. When she was finally released, she wasn't the same. She'd gone half mad with fear. So as much of a pest as George can be, he has a reason to want to keep a second Purge at bay."

"Ah," understanding lit up Leon's eyes, "So the time off was to give him time to spread the word."

"Yes. And to get him out of my hair for a while. The man really is irritating," Arthur chuckled for a moment before sobering again. He glanced to the perch where the enchanted merlin rested the days it deigned to come back to the castle. It had been gone for well over a week. He was beginning to wonder if it would come back at all. "Do you think he made it, Leon? Do you think Merlin managed to get to safety?"

Leon was quiet for a moment while he pondered his answer. "I think that if anyone could survive what he just went through, Merlin could. He's made of stronger stuff than we give him credit for, Arthur."

The prince gazed into the dark red depths of his wine glass before he pushed it away, his thoughts suddenly too bloody to stomach it. "I hope you're right," he whispered.

"I do, too."


	10. Epilogue

"Merlin."

A persistent voice urged him into wakefulness. For a blissful moment, he felt no pain, just the numbness of a waking dream and the forgetfulness of sleep. Unthinking, he tried to push himself up onto an elbow. Fire erupted in his shoulder, nearly driving him back into darkness. His head lolled to one side, his vision blurring with tears. A low groan escaped his throat.

"Don't try to move," the voice spoke again. A cool hand brushed against his forehead, sending a wash of relief through his body and dulling the pain until it was manageable.

Merlin opened his eyes again, trying to catch a glimpse of his rescuer, but the pale light was too faint for him to see. He licked his lips. The salt-sick taste of drying blood was thick in his mouth. "Where. . . ?" he gasped.

"It doesn't matter right now. You need to rest."

The voice was familiar, somehow, if distant. Like the last notes of a song heard in the wind or recalled from a dream. "Wh-who. . . ?" He shivered as he unconsciously reached for the power to begin healing himself. Some remote part of his mind remembered and recognized his own injuries- a badly broken collarbone, an arrow piercing through his other shoulder. The scrapes and bruises from a fall. Thirst, hunger, and fatigue. Simple enough to fix, that little part of him said. _'Simple. . . _'

But half-delirious with a rising fever, his ears ringing like he had been trapped in a bell, with all the pain and exhaustion and remembered fear, he could not figure out where to begin. The magic flowed over, through, around, and out of him in a confused wash until he thought he would drown in it all. Drown on dry land. Suffocate with a power he knew better than his own name. He choked on air, convulsing as his body lost track of itself and its own weight against the ground. His vision whitened, and then grayed. He lost himself in the ebb and flow of the power around him, forgetting in an instant if he was meant to be in a body or if the earth around him was the proper vessel for all the spirit-stuff that made up _Merlin_.

Hands anchored him back in his own flesh; one over his heart, one over his eyes, gently holding his self in place as the flood slowed and washed away, leaving him empty and frighteningly solid.

"Not right now. Not in this moment. You are too weak to control the power of the magic here, Merlin, but you need not fear. The weakness will pass and in time, you will be whole again. For now, though, you must rest."

Merlin gave the other the faintest of nods and let himself drift back into painless sleep. 

* * *

_A/N: Thank you to everyone who has followed/favorited/reviewed these stories. Your support really is appreciated and helps keep me writing. Look for the next story in the series, entitled 'A Handful of Dust' to start up in the next few days!_


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